The Grove (Guardians of Destiny)

by Jean Johnson

  Josai swooped under Aradin’s wrist and caught the falling cuff in a quilted satchel before it could land on the not-ground of the Dark. She hovered, waited, and caught the second one as well. Pulling the drawstring tight, she wrapped the ends around the throat of the bag, knotted them, and held it out to Aradin with a bow.

  “Thank you, ladies,” he praised both women. “Since I’ve only been borrowing them, I’ll make sure to return these to their proper owner. When everything has been cleared up, of course.”

  “Just don’t touch those nasty things while you’re in the Dark,” Josai reminded him tartly. “Or you’ll be stuck in here again until someone can separate you.”

  “You also owe us both a dance, next turning of Brother Moon,” Glenna added. “Be careful when cloak-swapping.”

  “I will,” he promised. Bag in hand, Aradin turned to his right, took three steps, and arrived back at his Doorway. (Ready to go?) he asked Teral, stepping just far enough back to be out of the way, yet close enough to still hear.

  (More than ready; this hard pallet is not good for my back.) Drawing in a deep breath to brace their body, Teral sank through the Doorway. Silently, the Witchcloak sank downward onto the cell cot. Unless the cloak remained exactly where it was, unnoticed and untouched, they would not be able to return to it.

  Aradin kept his fingers on his Doorway while Teral pulled their flesh through. One short step, two—with their free hands clasped, the fingers of his other hand brushed the frame of the other, fuller Witchcloak, still hanging in Saleria’s dressing room. Then, with Teral to anchor him, he released the other cloak and pulled himself into the new opening. Thankfully, the room was dark, for the deep hood was how the cloak had been hung on its peg. A gentle tug released it from the wooden projection, allowing him to step away from the wall and cast about for the lightglobe.

  Which should be . . . two steps to the left, about head-height . . . there. His fingers bumped into it, summoning a gentle glow. Once he had enough light to see by, Aradin set the bag with the cuffs on an empty patch of shelving. He made his way to the refreshing room, freshened up, rapped off all the lights, and worked his way downstairs. The moment his foot touched the ground floor, a board squeaked beneath it.

  “—Back again, are you, you little snot? By the Gods, I think not!”

  Aradin jumped back, tripped on the bottom step, and landed on his backside with a grunt. “Nannan!” he gasped. Or tried to. All that came out was a strangled wheeze. (Dammit—the spell’s still choking me from speaking?)

  He flipped the cloak folds over his body and quickly swapped places with Teral—who hastily threw up an arm to block the smacking of whatever it was the housekeeper had in her hands. A broom, from the rustling thump of it.

  “Enough, woman!” Teral ordered, grasping the shaft and wrestling it to a standstill. “This is Teral, not that little snot, as you so aptly named him.”

  “T-Teral? Oh, Gods!” Dropping her end of the broom, the housekeeper tried to cuddle him in apology. The Darkhanan Guide put up with it for a few moments, then pushed her off. Gently, but firmly.

  “Enough. Now is not the time nor place,” he added. “I take it the little snot isn’t here?”

  “No—and I’ll thank you to put a stop to this nonsense! I would’ve stopped him before, if the guards hadn’t been here earlier. And I would have come up directly, if I hadn’t been, erm, indisposed,” she mumbled, blushing. “You know, in the refreshing room for a bit.”

  Teral held up one hand, determined to regain some dignity. “Please, nothing more need be said of the matter. I’ll value the bruises you have given me as a sign of your devotion to your mistress’ household, but there’s no need to demonstrate more of your combat prowess. Your broom, milady.”

  Blushing again, she took back her makeshift weapon. “So . . . what will you be doing now?”

  “I shall be preparing the Grove for Deacon Shanno’s visit on the morrow. If he wants to handle the Grove, I say let him try . . . as in, try it at its worst.”

  Nannan blanched a little and clutched her broom close. “You . . . you’re going to unleash it on the town?”

  He hadn’t considered going that far. “Er, well . . .”

  A masculine chuckle startled the Witch. Not just Teral, but Aradin as well, for it came from neither of them. A deep, laughing male voice whispered in their minds. (Now, bring no lasting harm to anyone else . . . but prove beyond a doubt that the “little snot” has not what it takes to handle the responsibility of My Wedding-Grove.)

  (Ah, certainly, Lord Jinga,) Aradin managed to reply. (Certainly. We’d better get going—would You be willing to arrange our safe return to the prison cell, unnoticed?) he asked daringly.

  (It would help further the illusion that Shanno is free to do as he pleases,) Teral added.

  The deep chuckle they heard was the only answer they received, for Jinga did not speak again.

  (Wait—my voice . . . ?) Aradin asked. Nothing. Sighing mentally, he prodded his Guide. (Well, get on with it. Even with only one of us able to speak, I can still cast whatever spells I’ve made an instinctual habit, so I’m not completely useless . . . but you’ll still have to do most of the work.)

  (Not unless we can distill a counter-potion from the communications sap, which we should be able to do quickly enough,) Teral told him. Out loud, he said to Nannan, “It’s best you don’t know what I’ll be planning, so you can claim on a Truth Stone you don’t know what I’m up to or where I’ve gone.”

  If Aradin had been in charge of their shared body, he would have smacked his forehead. (Of course! With magic that concentrated, it’d be like a modified Ultra Tongue brew! Not that I know how to brew one, but I do know the potion variety that allows you to learn another language permanently, and it does so by using an enchanted talisman. If I dunk all of the translation amulets we’ve collected over the years . . .)

  (First we have to get to the Bower,) Teral reminded him. (The wards were not refreshed tonight . . . and given our charming visitor, I don’t think we should do anything to restrengthen them just yet.)

  (Between you and me, we can keep the worst of the Grove’s amalgamations from running free. We’ll have to keep an eye out for whatever Saleria would’ve been here to control, though. Some things can be let through to Groveham’s streets,) Aradin said. (But as much as that little snot needs to learn a lesson in humility, the rest of the city doesn’t need to have their homes invaded by walking clumps of clawed, thorny skunkweed.)

  Teral nodded and dusted himself off, heading for the back door. (Right. We’ll grab a pole from the pruning shed for our own safety’s sake, and maybe to siphon and redirect some of tonight’s wave of magic—amplifying it carefully—and then return to the Dark to see if we have been given a window of opportunity to return to the cell before the morning slops come round.)

  (Come now, it wasn’t horribly bad. Those drippings were rather tasty, and there were a few scraps of beef in the bowl, plus a few vegetables,) Aradin joked. (A bit mushy from being overcooked, but not too bad all the same.)

  “Teral?” Nannan’s voice arrested the Guide. He turned in time to see her holding out a small bucket covered with a kerchief tucked into the top. “A bit of bread, some cheese, and smoked sausage slices, in case they didn’t feed you . . . well . . . Aradin right, when they hauled him away. I didn’t have time to actually cook anything. I’m sorry.”

  He smiled at her and accepted the luncheon pail. “We both thank you for your kindness. Rest assured, this will be quite enough. Aradin wasn’t starved, though we’ve both had much better. Sleep well, Nannan. We’ll make sure the house is well-warded before beginning the night’s mischief.”

  “You’d better,” she half-threatened. “Or I’ll use my broom to smack you and that young Aradin, too.”

  FOURTEEN

  (Would you like to see again?)

  Saleria blinked,
losing track of the conversation. Serina, Dominor, and Guardian Daemon of Pasha—who had accompanied his sister, the priestess selected to represent their nation’s Patrons—continued discussing the feasibility of reopening the old cross-continental Portals, which had been vastly superior to the modest mirror-Gate systems used now. The Grove was a part of that network, since the untamed energies of its three rifts were causing a great deal of disturbance in the aether across Katan . . . but when that voice spoke, she listened.

  . . . Jinga? she asked, and received the God’s chuckle. Is something happening in the Grove?

  The chuckle became a full-on laugh, and she found herself swept up in a warmth and darkness utterly unlike the chilling breathlessness of the Dark. This time when she landed, she seemed to be in the body of a rabbit or other small animal, for her view was low to the ground and half-sheltered by the leaves of a bush.

  A strange sound reached her ears. It resolved into the voice of a young man yelling, of heavy, frantic running, and the crackling of branches breaking and being shoved aside. As Saleria watched, Deacon Shanno stumbled into view, twisting and swiping at some sort of dark green vine that had wrapped itself around his head like the tendrils of a cuttlefish. His fine white robes were stained with mud and greenery, leaves were plastered to his skin—leech leaves, she realized with a touch of alarm—and he didn’t see the low rock in his way.

  Tumbling to the ground with a yelp, he struggled with the cuttlefish-vine. The fall seemed to have stunned it, for its grip relaxed enough for the disheveled deacon to yank it off. Furious, he grabbed it by its tentacle-tendrils and bashed it against the rock several times, then flung it away. Shanno sat there panting for a few moments, then winced and started picking the leech-leaves off his skin.

  “How could she make this look so easy . . . ? No, no,” he corrected himself. “The Keeper was not doing her job. Well, I’m not defeated yet! By Jinga, I swear you’ll learn to obey me! I’ll burn you all to the ground, if I have to!”

  Saleria lifted both of her brows at that. Ah . . . Jinga? I really should intervene. Warped and mutated though they may be, the plants and animals of the Grove don’t all deserve to die.

  (Hush, My child,) Jinga chided her, enveloping her in darkness once again. (He is salvageable, if he can learn humility. That, and I have a bet with Darkhan going.)

  She came back to herself with a rush . . . and dropped her head into her palms. Oh, Jinga . . . Your sense of humor is unlike any other I know . . .

  (You should speak with the priest-Exarch Melulose Filomen-Amon, who worships Tifrang, God of Mischief.)

  There’s a God of Mischief? She lifted her head, blinking. And people worship Him? As their sole Patron?

  (Yep.)

  With that, she was alone again in her mind. Vaguely, she heard Serina asking if she was alright, and managed a weak nod. Maybe I don’t want that Ultra Tongue potion Orana promised to get; I’m not sure I’d want to understand a culture that worships a God of Mischief.

  She refocused her attention on the conversation the others were having. Guardian Daemon was speaking now.

  “. . . And I cannot do anything about the mid-latitude aether disturbances until the missing Guardian of Garama’s Fountain shows up. As much as it pains me, you’re going to have to leave Aiar out of your equations, Serina.”

  “But if I don’t expand our efforts into Aiar, then I have to get Senod-Gra fixed!” the Arithmancer complained, tugging on her long, pale blonde braid. “You know what Keleseth is like.”

  “Then the solution to your problem is to wait, young lady,” Daemon told her. “The prophecies are slowly coming true, which means the Garama problem will probably fix itself on its own. However, I should point out that Portals to various places in this world in theory can be seized and used to create Portals to other universes. Which includes the Netherhells.”

  Serina rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Not if you shield them correctly! Honestly, am I the only one who reads all the pre-Shattering texts anymore?”

  “You’re probably the only one with time, interest, and access to a library old enough, love,” Dominor told his wife. The ornate bracelet on his wrist chimed, startling Saleria. He winced. “Right. Time to go relieve Queen Kelly of her duties for the evening shift. I am very glad Rora volunteered to be the nighttime coordinator for the Convocation.”

  Kissing his wife, he headed for the door. Not every room had them; some were stone instead of wood like this one. Not every room had furniture, though someone had scrounged up a set of benches and two chairs for this room. But no one could say the location for the new Convocation lacked enough rooms for it. Serina sighed, watching him go, then glanced down at her napping twins. Today, they were cuddled together in a floating, spell-rocked cradle.

  Guardian Daemon eyed them, too. The wistful look in his blue eyes made Saleria wonder why such a handsome, commanding man hadn’t found a wife yet. Or even a husband, if such were the ways of his homeland. She ventured a question. “Do you like children, Guardian Daemon?”

  “I do, though it’s hard to juggle being the Guardian and having a private life. I can’t wait until my sister Daria can speak to Pashon and Pashana about this stupid civil war tearing our country apart. The only bright side is that it’s winter, which means the fighting has slowed . . . if not the jockeying for power,” he muttered. “As much as I’d like to help you with your project, Serina, that, too, must be quelled and settled first, much like the aether. There are times when I could smack my cousins.”

  “I hope the Gods can bring a solution to your nation’s problem,” Saleria offered. “The only turmoil I have to face at the moment involves ambulatory blackberries, and a young deacon in need of a lesson regarding his unwarranted hubris.”

  “Sounds fascinating,” Serina said, giving her slumbering son one last gentle caress. “We’ve gone on and on about my problems. Let’s hear about yours—you said the rift-Fonts in your Grove actually get concentrated down into a sort of sap?”

  “A concentrated sap? You mean, as in a magic-infused sap?” Daemon asked her. “That’s very odd-sounding, but I’d imagine it might be useful in various potions.”

  “That’s what Aradin thought,” Saleria agreed. “Witch Aradin Teral; I think you’ve seen him on Kerric’s mirror-links? He’s a Hortimancer, so he deals more with the base ingredients than the end result, but he has some interesting ideas on what the original Keeper who created the Bower might’ve had in mind for the sap.”

  “If you need help, I offer my services; I originally trained in Alchemy, though these days I have my hands full trying to keep the civil war from boiling over. With luck, my Gods will give me a solution to the problem so I can recapture all that wasted time with something I actually enjoy doing.” Daemon frowned for a moment, then sighed and shook it off. “But back to the sap. If there’s any chance I could get my hands on some samples of it, I could do some testing for you, maybe some experimentation, see if it’s actually viable as a potion ingredient.”

  “Yes, it would be good to get a second trustworthy opinion,” she said, trying not to think too much about the amusing-yet-sad image of Deacon Shanno stumbling through her unprotected Grove. “I’m not an Alchemist or a Hortimancer myself, but here’s what Aradin told me about the Bower’s sap varieties, and from what he’s already tried, something of how they could be turned into potion bases . . .”

  * * *

  Aradin heard her coming. Though the exact words were muffled up until the point the stout wooden door was unlocked and pulled open, the stern alto scolding which the accompanying guardsman was receiving made the Witch grin to himself. Nannan in full fury was a force to be reckoned with, if one was constrained by laws regarding the safety and well-being of law-abiding citizens.

  “—knows what you’ve been feeding the poor boy! I will not fail in my duties to the Holy Keeper’s household by letting you poison him just because that d
aft deacon says he’s guilty! And I will have that boy given a fair trial by Truth Stone, even if I have to drag Duke Finneg himself, Councillor for Conflict Resolution, all the way here from the capital!”

  Levering himself up on one elbow, Aradin watched the pair stop by the guards’ table, halted by the hand her escort raised.

  “Technically, that would be the job of either Lord Stotten, Councillor for the Law, or Lord Gregus, Councillor for Foreign Affairs, as he is a foreigner,” the guardsman stated. He wasn’t one of the ones that had grabbed the Darkhanan, and didn’t seem the kind to perpetuate a cruel misjustice. Then again, all Aradin had to go on was how the other man’s tone lay somewhere between firm and weary.

  “I don’t care if he’s one of my baked salmon and cheese pies!” she retorted. “Locking him up when he’s only been doing Her Holiness’ orders is the real crime here. Now open up that door so I can serve him a real supper,” Nannan ordered, pointing her finger briefly at the bars serving as the fourth wall of Aradin’s temporary home, before poking it into the teal-clad guardsman’s chest. “None of that slop I wouldn’t feed to a pig!”

  His eyes narrowed, but he sighed heavily and gestured at the table. “Let me examine the contents of your ‘supper pail’ and I will see if it is safe to pass to the prisoner.”

  “You can examine it, but you haven’t earned the right to eat it,” Nannan bartered stoutly.

  Amused, Aradin rubbed his chin. The housekeeper made a show of fussing and slapping the guard’s hands when he tried poking and prodding, chiding him for, “. . . not knowing where those fingers have been lately!” and in general making up for all the aggravation she had given Aradin in their earlier weeks. Mainly because she was giving it to his jailers.

  Finally, with an exasperated sigh, the guardsman led her to the cell. Curtly ordering Aradin to stay back, he allowed Nannan to step inside. She sniffed, wrinkled her nose, and brought the bucket over to him, muttering about nasty fingerprints in her good food.